On A Wing and A Prayer
by geekgeekinsgeekles
Summary: Flint Laz does not feel like she has much to be proud of when she comes across a chance to live up to the person she's always wished she could be by joining the Resistance as an X-Wing pilot. But, does she have it in her to be that person or will she simply prove to herself and her new family that she is every bit the failure she's always seen herself as? (Takes place after VII)


The air was so thick with humidity, she could almost taste the water. Inside her leather flight jacket, Flint was sweating up a storm but it was the only thing concealing the small blaster from the others so she kept it on. Arnie and his gang were friendly enough, but you couldn't trust folks like these ever. Any sign of comfort might be twisted into a chance to swindle the pants and cargo off a pilot.

Flint was already at a disadvantage because of her gender and size. She was short by most human standards and barely came up to the massive Arnie's elbow. Her well placed curves could have more than made up for her size as far as influence, but Flint was not one to even notice such things. Her staple attire was the old flight jacket that had belonged to her father, her ratty cargo pants, and some scuffed boots held together with glue and prayer.

Tired of her coal black hair getting in her way, she kept it cut short in the back with longer bangs in the front that hung around her slate colored eyes. It was her eyes that were her greatest advantage and most blatant weakness when it came to the smuggling business. They were large and deceptively innocent, but could flash with fire when clients tried to strong arm her. At the same time, if she wasn't careful they could reveal her every thought - like two gaping holes that could broadcast her every thought.

At the moment, Flint kept her eyes as emotionless as possible, surveying the chain of men unloading her ship with a calloused interest at best. She stood as straight as possible, drawing up her full height, arms crossed.

"So," Arnie began casually as he leaned against the ship beside her. "Did Claig tell you what all of this is about?" It was a big question pathetically disguised as small talk.

Back in the day, Arnie had been the muscle of his and Claig's smuggling operation. His broad frame and barrel chest had become swollen and flabby as time passed, but there were still echoes of power to them. His salt and pepper beard hid a face that used to be handsome before it took so many punches.

"My job isn't to ask questions, Arn," she replied in a tired monotone, staring straight ahead at the growing pyramid of splintered wooden crates. "Deliver and collect. That's all I care about."

Arnie let out his deep, loud chortle and gave her a rough slap on the shoulder that caused her knees to buckle slightly. "That's why we always contract you, kid," the pet name made her bristle. "You might not be the best pilot, but you're the smartest. You know what business to stay out of."

He chortled louder and reached into his back pocket to bring out a thick stack of credits. "Here's the collection part, kid," Arnie slapped the credits into her hand, ten thousand of them. "Keep up the good work," he moved to join his operations manager in directing the unload traffic.

"Hey," she said sharply, making Arnie turn with a raised eyebrow. "Since I'm so good why don't you have a mechanic fill my ship up before I leave?"

Arnie grinned and winked a confirmation to her. As he yelled for a mechanic and continued to his operations manager, she wonder how smart he would think she was in about twenty minutes.

"Jim," Flint tried to look calm and natural as she settled into the cockpit in case someone was watching outside. Every nerve inside her was alive and screaming to get the hell out of there. Any second someone would open a crate and see what had happened.

"Yes, master," a polite automated male voice chirped.

"It's time to blow this popsicle stand - you got those coordinates ready to go?"

"Of course, master - just as you directed."

"Great," the ship's engines whined to life. Flint tripped a few switches and the plane jolted as it began to rise off the ground. Just a dozen yards away she could see the operations manager wedging a crowbar into the top of a crate as Arnie waved in her direction. _Please don't._ "Cue up our escape song, will ya?"

"Of course, master."

Over the ship's speaker system her favorite old song from when she was a kid began to play, putting her at ease. Nothing could go wrong now - she felt herself going into the flow. Reaching for the Bantha bobble head on her dash, she ripped off the head to reveal a tiny button as the first flash of blaster fire swept across the nose of her quickly ascending ship. The crate had been open.

"Alright, Jim - let's see some fireworks," she quipped, slamming her finger down on the detonator button.

Nothing.

"What the…" She pressed a few more times in rapid succession as her stomach dropped to her toes. The explosion of a cannon close to the ship sent her reeling.

"Nothing is happening, master," Jim stated calmly.

"I can see that," she yelled hitting the button with her entire palm. She shook the plastic body of the bantha and pressed the button some more. "What's happening with this thing?!"

"I told you - nothing, master."

"Dammit, Jim, not now!" Leaning over the side she could still clearly see the twisted, raging face of Arnie as he blasted shot after shot up at her.

"Perhaps Ott tampered with the cargo, master?"

"Why would he do that," she grabbed the yoke and pulled it up sharply. "Get us at full speed now, Jim." The longer they hung around the better chance that Arnie could get someone in the air after her.

"Of course, master," the whole plane shook violently before jettisoning up into the atmosphere. She twisted the aircraft into flying parallel with the planet below. The G force changes were making her feel light headed.

"Plug in those coordinates."

"Yes, master."

The yoke began to move on its own, steering them to where she had been instructed to rendezvous after the mission. She regarded the detonator in her hand. "Piece of crap." Gazing out the side window where Arnie and his crew were still firing, though well out of range, the gravity of the situation began to crush her.

This was bad. Ott was not going to be happy. That was an understatement, he'd be furious - so much was riding on this. Her father's freedom was riding on this and now it was over because of a faulty detonator. Her eyes blurred with tears she resented being able to produce. She was aching to be close to her father, see him safe. Flint's other senses started to feel as blurred as her vision. She no longer hear her song or Jim's request for a status update on her well being. She didn't feel the chilled air of the ship on her burning skin.

Instead, it was as if she was suddenly standing next to her poor wizened father, aged beyond his years due to year after year bent in the fruit fields. He was in his dank barrack looking in a resigned way at his strong, scarred hands - once so proud, he was broken now. One word flashed brightly in her mind: failure.

From a place she did not even realize existed, Flint let out an enraged sob and pressed down on the button one last time.

In an instant, all of the flashing gun fire from below became engulfed in a larger violent flash. The bulb of flames rose rapidly, brightening the Jim's insides. With tears still running down her cheeks, Flint stood in shocked awe as Arnie's compound succumbed to the explosion.

"Mission completed then, master?"

"Yeah," she breathed still not believing what had just happened. "Yeah, I guess it was…."

"Shall I send an alert message to Ott, master?"

"Please," Flint sunk into her chair, exhausted. "Please, Jim, thank you."

"Master?"

"Jim?"

"You certainly lit up Arnie's day."

Flint laughed much too loudly, her emotions fueled by the elation of eased nerves. "You're sick, Jim."

"Actually, I am unable to get physically ill. I am simply programmed to detect emotional distress and follow protocol to relieve tension. I believe your grandmother lent me her own humor stylings."

Flint continued to laugh until she was sobbing again. She shook in her pilot's chair, face in her hands. It was finally over.


End file.
